Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained
by OpenPage
Summary: Part four of "Peeping Through the Closet Door", a series of short stories detailing Tom's journey as he comes to realize he has feelings for Dennis. Tom and Dennis begin to socialize outside of work.
1. Taking a Chance on Happiness

**Taking a Chance on Happiness**

 ** _Six days later_**

Tom placed a fresh sheet of paper in the typewriter, and clearing his throat, he laced his fingers together and stretched out his arms. His joints gave a satisfying crack, and releasing his hands, he waggled his fingers theatrically over the typewriter's keys before proceeding to type.

As far as the young officer was concerned, there was only one downside to policing; the mountains of paperwork that needed filling in on a daily basis. Offense Reports, Incident Reports, Arrest Reports, Accident Reports, every case required daily documentation, the demand for accurate reporting adding hours to each officer's day. It was a necessary but unfortunate part of the job, but Tom undertook the chore in the same way he tackled the other aspects of his career, with a tenacious diligence. He was a cop through and through, and he took pride in every facet of his work, even the tedious task of typing.

A rhythmic _tap, tap,_ coupled with the occasional _ping_ of the typewriter carriage echoed throughout the near-empty operations room. The tip of Tom's tongue protruded from between his lips, a telltale sign he was focusing all his attention on the job at hand. Lost in thought, he didn't notice a lone figure approach his desk, but when a piece of paper fluttered onto the scratched, wooden surface, his fingers froze, and snapping his head to the left, he watched as Booker continued walking across the room before disappearing into the stairwell.

Curiosity soon got the better of him and picking up the creased piece of paper, he unfolded it, revealing a message scrawled in Booker's untidy hand.

 **Drinks tonight? Pick you up at seven.**

A quiver of excitement rippled over Tom's flesh, the sensation sending a delightful wave swirling through his stomach, the somersaulting undulation sparking flashes of heat in his groin. Since spending the night on Booker's couch, he hadn't had a chance to utter more than a few words to the enigmatic officer. But the note changed everything, Booker had asked him out, and even though he had no idea what that actually meant, his mind, body, and spirit immediately filled with a restless anticipation. He glanced up at the clock, his lip curling in annoyance when he registered the time. With less than an hour to finish his report, drive home, shower, and change, he doubted he would be ready by seven o'clock. His gaze returned to the typewriter, the Arrest Report mocking his conscience with its lack of completion. It would take him at least forty-five minutes to type up his statement in his usual, meticulous manner, leaving him a mere fifteen minutes to drive home. Not an impossible task, but only if he broke the law and drove above the speed limit. It was a Catch 22 situation. If he wanted to make it home on time, he needed to compromise his ethics. Therefore, he had a choice to make; type the report the following day, or risk tarnishing his perfect driving record. Either way, his moral compass would be spinning on its axis.

"Screw this," he muttered under his breath, and pushing back his chair, he stood up. He had devoted too many years conforming to social pressure, and he was tired of the toll it had taken on him. From living up to his mother's unrealistic expectations to proving himself worthy enough to follow in his deceased father's footsteps, he seemed to spend his life seeking confirmation from those around him. While he rarely rebelled, in the last few days, he had felt a paradigm shift in consciousness, an awakening of the psyche. There was no longer the burning need to please, and although unexpected and rather traumatic, his intimate encounter with Booker had freed him from the stress of his virtuous life. He felt liberated, in the same way he had when he'd transformed from a strait-laced rookie officer to a somewhat cooler undercover cop. He sensed an aligning of his soul, an inner peace fighting to gain control over his spiritual turmoil. Despite his religious upbringing, he didn't believe homosexuality was a sin, but it wasn't always easy to stray from the gilded path of childhood conditioning. Nevertheless, he was a grown man, a freethinking individual, and he was prepared to take a chance on love, no matter how unconventional in the eyes of the church. Somehow, Booker had managed to weave a flirtatious web of intrigue, captivating his heart, and Tom's desire to act was rapidly becoming a compulsion. While he wasn't sure it _was_ love, he needed to at least spend more time with the beguiling dark-haired officer so he could satisfy his own curiosity and lay to rest his uncertainty once and for all.

And so, with one last guilt-ridden look at his typewriter, he grabbed his jacket and walked from The Chapel.

The hot, L.A. sun had begun its descent toward the horizon, lowering the temperature by several degrees. In less than an hour it would disappear behind the city's skyline, its final breath a vibrant burst of orange and gold against a backdrop of paling blue sky. Day would transcend into night, the gloomy hues of dusk bringing the city's colored neon signs to life, the flashing lights advertising shameless, adult fun. Strip clubs, massage parlors, and sex shops all thrived under cover of darkness, where people's inhibitions disappeared along with the fading light. Friday night was, for most, the end of the working week, a time to forget the responsibility of paying bills and revel in the freedom afforded to those who lived in the land of opportunity. The city offered endless possibilities for anyone in pursuit of a good time. It was a virtual Arcadia of carefree singles, all looking to get laid, and on any given night, the aroma of sex mingled with the caustic stench of exhaust fumes.

Tom paced up and down the sidewalk, his eyes scanning the street with nervous anticipation. Butterflies fluttered in his stomach, the gentle vibration increasing his anxiety, and when tendrils of dark thoughts began to weave their way through his mind, his uncertainty turned to full-blown panic. What if it was all a game, a cruel joke to make fun of him? Could Booker be that callous? Was he a marionette and Booker the puppeteer? Was the dark-haired officer pulling his strings just to get a laugh, making him the butt of everyone's jokes?

A car horn sounded in the distance, startling him, and a hysterical laugh caught in the back of his throat. He was allowing his paranoia to get the better of him. Booker might be a lot of things, but Tom doubted he would go to that much trouble just to see him squirm.

Without warning, a vision of him squirming beneath the dark-haired officer's naked, sweat-slicked body flashed into his mind, forcing another shaky laugh from his lips. He clamped a trembling hand over his mouth, the heat burning his face warming his fingers. His imagination was running away with him. Just because Booker had asked him out for drinks didn't mean…

"Hey, Hanson! If you stand alone on a street corner, people are gonna think you're a hooker."

The low chuckle of amusement reflected in Booker's voice resonated across the street, the laughter sounding much louder in Tom's mind than it was in reality, and he instinctively ducked his head in embarrassment. Lost in thought, the young officer hadn't seen the black Cadillac pull up to the opposite curb, and caught off guard, his blush deepened. He had no idea what had possessed him to stand on the sidewalk instead of letting Booker come up to his apartment. Since his birthday, behaving like a chump had become his new raison d'être, his humiliating faux pas bleeding his confidence as efficiently as water flowing down a drain. What was it about Booker that had him behaving like an asinine teenager? Did he feel inferior when in the company of a man who not only boasted film star good looks but an Adonis physique and a quirky sense of humor? Or was it something more obvious? The word _infatuation_ came to mind whenever thoughts of the dark-haired officer entered Tom's head. Perhaps that was all it was, an adolescent crush, a harmless...

The slam of a car door pulled the young officer from his reverie, and looking up, he watched as Booker crossed the street. The two men stood looking at each other for several moments before Tom broke the silence, a self-deprecating smile tilting his lips. "Looks like I still hold the number one position as the resident jackass."

A broad grin spread across Booker's face. "Do I make you nervous, Hanson?"

Tom bit down on his lower lip, his aura innocent yet strangely seductive. "A little," he admitted in a quiet voice. "This is all kinda new to me."

"Don't worry," Booker replied, a twinkle of amusement brightening his eyes. "I don't bite… at least not on the first date."

It was a silly joke devised to put Tom at ease, but the young officer was too jittery to recognize the casual attempt at humor. "Is that what this is?" he asked in a strained voice. "Are we on a date?"

Booker's expression sobered, the sparkle in his eyes fading to a faint glimmer, and tilting his head to one side, he studied his friend's flushed face. "Well, I guess that's up to you, Tommy."

The words, _"Come for me, Tommy! Come for me!"_ echoed inside Tom's mind, the vivid memory sending a jolt of arousal down the entire length of his cock. A moan rose in the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down with a gulp, his cheeks once again flaming red. It was then everything became crystal clear. No matter how much he tried to deny it, his feelings for Booker were more than just infatuation. When he looked into the dark-haired officer's eyes, the air _whooshed_ from his lungs, leaving him breathless. A simple touch ignited a fiery ball in the pit of his stomach, fueling the flame in his heart, the glowing embers illuminating his soul. Yes, they were all metaphors written by a romantic fool, but the deep yearning keeping Tom awake at night was the real deal. He was falling in love, and he was falling hard.

With his head now admitting what his heart already knew, the tension flowed from Tom's body, and a small, cheeky smile formed on his lips. "Then I guess we're on a date."

The dark-haired officer's eyebrows arched in surprise, but in typical Booker fashion, he played it cool. "So, what are we waiting for? Let's go."

Tom's grin widened, and putting his faith in the lap of the Gods, he stepped off the gilded path and onto the rocky road of self-discovery.

 _To be continued…_


	2. Clink, Clink, Another Drink?

**Clink, Clink, Another Drink?**

A light wave of chatter undulated throughout the bar, the cheerful voices creating a welcoming ambiance without intruding on Tom and Dennis' conversation. It was a relaxing environment, open and friendly, yet affording them the intimacy Booker craved. He wanted to get to know Hanson better, and not just in a sexual way. Despite working together, he knew very little about the young officer's past, and he longed to fill in the blanks so he could understand what made him tick. Curiosity was his curse, and he felt an insatiable desire to know everything about a person. Many accused him of narcissism, but he was, in fact, the exact opposite. People stirred inside him an almost voyeuristic interest; their complexity of mind a constant source of fascination. He could while away countless hours people watching, silently observing their interactions, his active imagination keeping him amused as he psychoanalyzed their various behaviors. Since meeting Tom, he had spent many a lonely night creating visual stories in his mind, while his talented fingers stroked his cock to hardness. He even fabricated fantasies involving the officer's sexual preferences, which usually contained visions of bondage and whipped cream. He had become so proficient in believing his make-believe world, he almost felt as though he and Tom were in an intimate relationship. Except it was all a lie. He knew nothing about the beautiful man sitting across from him, but all that was about to change. They were alone, free from the prying eyes of their fellow Jump Street officers, and he would finally get his answers, satisfying his fantasies once and for all.

"So," he murmured, a lazy plume of smoke exhaling from his nostrils. "What are you into, Hanson?"

Picking up his beer, Tom raised it to his lips. "Into?"

A cheeky smile twitched at the corners of Booker's mouth. While he _did_ want to know about Tom's past, he couldn't resist having a little fun along the way. "You know, what makes you horny? Kink, toys, bondage, threesomes? Or are you more of a _Barry White and candles_ kinda guy?"

Shocked by the question, Tom choked on his beer, the amber liquid spraying from between his lips. "Wh- _what?"_ he spluttered, his eyes bulging in surprise. "Why the hell would you ask me that?"

With a casual shrug of his shoulders, Booker butted out his cigarette. "Were you ever a boy scout?"

The odd change of subject had Tom's brow furrowing in confusion. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Relaxing back in his chair, Booker smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Well, like a boy scout, I'm all about being prepared."

Unsure whether to feel insulted or flattered, Tom stared open-mouthed at his _date_ , his blank expression resembling that of the animated character Cletus Spuckler. But he eventually found his voice, and rather than rising to the bait, he mustered all his inner calm and threw Booker an engaging smile. "Then I guess you're in for a few surprises."

It was Booker's turn to express astonishment, his eyes widening in shock. But the look was fleeting, and his face soon relaxed into a grin. "I can't wait," he replied with an impish wink.

Caught in the enchantment of the moment, Tom's eyelashes fluttered in a flirtatious, come-hither manner. He wasn't sure _why_ Booker's mischievous smile left him aching in all the right places, all he _did_ know for certain was he liked it. It had been a long time since someone had taken the time to seduce him, and it made a pleasant change from the usual _wham, bam, thank you, ma'am,_ detachment of casual sex. Not that he was a sure thing, he wasn't, especially now he was interested in _batting for the other team._ But he could feel Booker drawing him in with his dark, inviting gaze, and despite his cautious nature, he wasn't resisting. His curiosity was evolving, and he was willing to take it up a notch, if and when the opportunity arose.

When a hand reached across the table and grasped his fingers in a tender hold, he jumped involuntarily, surprise raising his eyebrows. Smiling, Booker rubbed his thumb over the back of the young officer's hand, his amusement evident by the sparkle in his eyes. "I really _do_ make you nervous, don't I, Hanson."

It was a statement, not a question, so Tom didn't reply. Instead, he relaxed his muscles and took pleasure from the gentle caress. A pleasant tingle started low in his belly, working its way down before igniting a spark of arousal that sent a flare of heat through his groin. But the moment was spoiled when another hand came out of nowhere, the meaty fist slamming down on the table, the force of the blow spilling their drinks.

"Get a fuckin' room, faggots," the owner of the hand growled, his unfocused eyes staring drunkenly into Tom's startled face. "I don't wanna see no butt pirates making kissy faces at each other."

The delightful tingle in Tom's gut lurched into a swirling cesspool of shame, the churning sickness rising into his throat. It was his first time on the receiving end of a homophobic taunt, and he snatched his hand away, embarrassment squeezing at his heart, sending it into an arrhythmic flutter. With their curiosity piqued, dozens of pairs of eyes watched on in interest, but no one came to the young officers' aid. Jimmy 'The Jab' Fitzpatrick was a thug, a fearless fighter, a man whose savage right hook could have seen him rise through the ranks of the NABF if his love of alcohol hadn't taken control over his life. That, and his Irish temper. He once hospitalized a man for three months for daring to take his parking space at a local 7-Eleven, the aggravated assault earning him a twelve-month stint in county jail. His reputation preceded him; he was to be avoided at all costs, even to the detriment of others.

As Fitzpatrick teetered unsteadily on his feet, Booker rose from his chair, his mocking smile disguising the anger brewing inside him. "Aww, whatsamatta, big fella? Are you jealous? Did your right hand finally say no?"

Someone snickered, but the rest of the crowd remained silent, a collective fear rippling through the room in tangible waves. Something was about to go down, and it wasn't going to be pretty.

Sensing Booker's smart mouth was about to get him in a boatload of trouble, Tom stood up, his hands held palms outward in a show of appeasement. "Hey, man, we don't want any troub—"

"No one's talkin' to you, _Nancy,"_ Fitzpatrick sneered, his gnarled finger jabbing Tom in the chest. "Men like you make me—"

"Hey, asswipe," Booker called out in a cheerful voice.

Fitzpatrick spun around, an angry growl resonating in the back of his throat. But before he could raise a hand, Booker's fist slammed into his nose, shattering the nasal bones. Blood poured from his nostrils, the grim sight adding to the drama of the scene, but through it all Booker remained smiling. "Oops," the dark-haired officer goaded, his wide-mouthed grin provocative and taunting. "Sorry."

Fumbling in his pocket, Tom pulled out his badge. Several underage drinkers stepped back from the bar, guilt draining the color from their faces. No one spoke, the only sound Fitzpatrick's snuffled breathing, the palpable tension threatening to erupt in a bloody brawl.

Eventually, Tom stepped forward and addressed the furious hoodlum. "You have two choices, motherfucker. You can leave now, or I can arrest you for assaulting a police officer."

"I didn't do nuffin'," Fitzpatrick snarled through bloodied lips. "I have witnesses who'll back me up. That sonofabitch hit _me."_

As if on cue, everyone in the bar turned away, sending a not too subtle message to the boxer. For the first time in his life, he was unable to intimidate those around him, and the sense of loss had a profound effect. Uncertainty twitched at the corner of his left eye, and mustering up a false bravado, he gave a derisive snort, the nasal grunt sending tiny droplets of blood into the air. "You fags ain't even worth it," he muttered, and turning away, he lurched across the floor and out the door.

A slow clap sounded from the back of the room, the applause building to a rowdy crescendo as more customers joined in. Soon, the whole bar was expressing their gratitude with cheers and whistles, the deafening noise thundering through the small building. With an amused grin, Booker turned and faced Tom, his shoulders shrugging in a ' _don't ask me, I have no idea why they're clapping'_ gesture. But all he received in return was a fractious pout, Tom's obvious displeasure melting the smile from his face. "What?" he griped, his face mirroring his friend's moody expression. "He deserved it."

Tom returned his badge to the pocket of his jeans. "Maybe, but if he'd pressed charges, Fuller would've busted your balls."

Touched that Tom cared enough to give him a lecture, Booker waggled his eyebrows in a humorous display of affection. "I'd rather have _you_ busting my balls. No… correction, I'd rather have you _licking_ my balls."

Past the point of embarrassment, Tom rolled his eyes, a teasing smile playing over his lips. "Dream on, Book. I'm not that easy."

"Is that right?" Booker murmured, his eyes roving over Tom's body. "Hmm, looks like I'm gonna have to use all my powers of persuasion."

Chuckling softly, Tom picked up his glass and swallowed the remaining dregs of beer. "Shall we go?" he asked, pushing his empty glass across the table.

With high levels of testosterone coursing through his body, Booker's cock twitched at the thought of spending time alone with the man who dominated his thoughts day and night.

But as was his nature, he played it cool, and picking up his jacket, he slung it casually over his shoulder. "Sure thing, Tommy."

Tom studied Booker's face for several moments, but the dark-haired officer's expression was unreadable, and with a frustrated sigh, he turned and walked toward the exit.

Booker remained where he was, his eyes locked on Tom's round, firm buttocks. While he knew he needed to tone it down and not come on too strong, he couldn't wait to get the young officer in his bed so he could prove to him that despite having to face the occasional homophobic remark, love triumphed over hatred every day of the week.


End file.
